


Just Another Day

by tinytveit



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, I blame Alex, Modern AU, R pines and reflects on life, a normal meeting at the Musain, and Courfeyrac is a little shit, and I can't get enough of these stupid boys, sort of, terrible angst of the love variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinytveit/pseuds/tinytveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire goes to another meeting and pines and mopes. It's really just an average day. And the rest of Les Amis are doing what they do best...whatever that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by my lovely, lovely friend Alex (alextriestousetheinternet.tumblr.com) and this is just a little drabble. Okay, it's not super "little" but you get the idea.
> 
> This was not beta'd, so if there are mistakes PLEASE let me know and I will fix them ASAP.

Grantaire sighed as he settled down into his seat in the back of the room, a place so habitually occupied that the wood was practically molded to his ass…or so Bahorel liked to think. He got there early, as always. The friends and members of their little group would trickle in slowly, but not before Enjolras completed his preparations. 

It was as if Grantaire wasn’t even there. The intrepid revolutionary, shuffling around with golden hair and that red jacket in bright contrast to the soot-stained walls of the café, shuffled around laying pages full of statistical information relevant to the night’s speech at each seat alongside other material. He moved around his sometimes-friend like he was a piece of furniture. Just as well. He wasn’t worth taking the effort on, was he? He never read the source materials Enjolras referenced, so the leader knew better than to waste the paper. No sheets were placed in from of him. Just as well. 

Over the next half hour, the rest of the group slowly trickled in as Grantaire finished his first drink of the night. Jean all but bounced in on the heels of Bossuet and Joly, knocking the former of the always-together pair into a wayward chair more than once. Jean was ranting about…something. Something in Hebrew, a language only he could understand among their group, so Grantaire tuned him out fairly quickly, tuning in just long enough to hear him wax poetic about the torture of the human soul and love and pining, or something. The poet was strange about topics such as that, unbeknownst to most. His bubbly personality contradicted it massively. And Grantaire loved it. 

Combeferre came in shortly afterwards, swooping like a hawk to discuss plans – probably for the next revolt sometime down the road – in hushed, excited tones. As was to be expected, Feuilly and Bahorel limped in with a few minutes to spare. The red-headed man, so much more lithe than the fighter (a huge bastard, Grantaire always noted, wincing slightly at the memory of bruises caused by calloused fists in fits of stupid rage and egotistical “I bet I could beat you in a fight. Totally” moments of stupid life choices) led him to seats near the back where Grantaire could hear muffled insults of love and elbows being shoved without result into muscled ribs. Those two were a strange pair, the builder and the fighter, but they inexplicably worked. Grantaire was tempted to join them at times, but…they knew. So they never asked. 

Barely making it in time, Courfeyrac burst into the room. “It’s okay guys, we can start now. The Courfeyrac has arrived!” Bahorel threw a coaster at him with an echoing laugh that rose above all the clamor of the room, as it was wont to do. Grantaire soaked it all up, as always, feeling again as the outsider of the group he’d known for 2 years. 

“Okay, okay! Settle down, guys! It’s time to get started.” The lilt of pure joy in his voice was hardly noticeable under his commanding tone he automatically assumed during each meeting; it was something R looked forward to each night, 2 times a week. You could use his barely-there excitement to sense if a protest was coming up or if an outreach program went well that morning, handing out flyers on the commons. Grantaire loved his voice. At his prompting, the entire room went silent. He’d seen judges in court (oh lord, had he seen judges in court often enough) with less command over a room and its occupants. 

Shaking the thought out of his head with a gruff grunt, he muttered under his breath “Good God, get the man a gavel and he’d rule the world…” He realized, all too late, that Courfeyrac had chosen a seat near the back for this meeting and was well within earshot. The little bastard, with his crazy mop of hair that rivaled Grantaire’s own and his face-splitting grin that made R want to vomit from saccharine overdoses at times turned to him with eager attentiveness. A devilish grin slowly spread across his lips. Shit. Grantaire met his face with one of (what he hoped was) steely anger, only minorly hazed over with the blurry edges of drunkenness. 

“Courf, if you buy him a gavel I will personally carve your heart out with a rusty spoon and make you eat it.” His deadpanning skills were…admittedly, a bit rusty. But since Courfeyrac would hardly care, it was a good time to stretch his muscles.

“Too late!” The bastard’s smile spread even wider, something the painter did not think was physically possible (because, really, it’s not like he as a lot of experience smiling. Not in public. He smiled sometimes when Enjolras got too excited about a speech and did that thing where he got flushed in the face and sped up his rate of speech and gesticulated with greater ferocity. But never in public. And never where Enjolras could see him.) 

Suddenly, Grantaire found himself dreading the next meeting. But not really. Who knew if Enjolras would even use a gavel given to him by Courfeyrac? Fuck it, Enjolras would totally use a gavel given to him by Courfeyrac. 

The meeting went on. Grantaire shifted only once, apart from leaving 20 minutes into a speech about welfare fraud and who really uses it versus media representation…or something to get another beer (because he never paid attention. Of course he didn’t. Because he wasn’t there for the cause. And he never cared. Because he was useless. Of course.) Enjolras met his eyes once, after he guffawed at one of his idealistic claims. Did it matter which one? The boy was going to change the world with words, no worry about guns and corrupted cops and shit like the average person. He felt like sinking into his chair under the gaze of those blue eyes. The blue seeped out at him like an icicle of passion and angelic murder. It was almost as if his grade school teachers were dancing around him in awkward costumes chanting “You’ll shoot your eye out!” (Wait, no. That was from that stupid movie Jean made him watch. The Christmas one. To be fair, that kid’s eyes were as blue as Enjolras’. Hell, that kid probably looked like little Enjolras.) He for sure did not wish to shoot his eye out from the propelled angelic murder icicle stare, and he averted himself. 

He found himself almost wishing he had seen his eyes again. Almost. If he was at all worthy, he would look at his eyes forever. But he wasn’t, of course. So he drank again. The meeting digressed into group discussion and people began to trickle out. He remained in his seat. They all left more slowly than they came in as conversation topics drifted away from welfare support to things like last night’s hook-ups and weekend plans. Feuilly and Bahorel descended into a half-assed fight and Jean followed them out with strings of Greek poetry analysis. Joly and Bossuet chatted idly with Courfeyrac about methods of…well, it seemed private. Musichetta’s name came up. And whoever Courfeyrac was following that week was also mentioned. Grantaire left himself out of this. He had no plans. He caught the eye once again of his marble lover of liberty, and allowed himself a grin. Beer does that to a guy, it would seem. Enjolras grinned back. Did he? Grantaire might’ve imagined it. Probably did. He’s not a person people smiled at. Not like that. 

But maybe he was? As the groups finally left, Enjolras and Combeferre talking in excited tones about the rally, apparently being held on the 17th. Who knew? Grantaire remained in the seat, suddenly not as comfortable in his loneliness. He sighed, heavily, and finished his drink. 

He’d have to come back next time, he supposed. He was curious to see how quickly Courfeyrac could find a gavel…


End file.
